


The Raw and Unedited Story of the Phantom of the Opera

by lets_get_a_wiggle_on_alexx



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Also they dance, Aziraphale and Crowley are already a Thing, Crowley has long hair (even longer than Eden), M/M, Minor character death (if you saw the movie you know who it is), Oh there's a masquerade, Other, Phantom of the Opera AU, The notion of conversation is unknown to these two, Their outfits match (wink wink), They finally talk though don't worry, They spend 4 chapters avoiding each other out of pure incompetence, They wear very stylish clothes, They're just flirting and reminiscing, yeah that's a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 03:29:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21008984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lets_get_a_wiggle_on_alexx/pseuds/lets_get_a_wiggle_on_alexx
Summary: After the not-so End of the World, the not-so-demon Crowley and the not-so-angel Aziraphale spend some time reminiscing on old memories. One in particular comes to mind; 1870's Paris, at the Opera Garnier.This is a re-telling of the famous legend of the Opera Ghost, now with more facts than Gaston Leroux himself would be aware of, making his own story now somewhat unreliable.Who is the true personnage behind the mask? And what are his intentions? Follow the two Celestial beings in this mysterious and thrilling (mostly comedic) telling of the Phantom of the Opera.





	1. Since When Do You Read?

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was brought to you by 3 months of blood, sweat and tears, minus the blood.
> 
> A big thanks to the organisers of this event for even making this possible!
> 
> By the way, in chapter six, there will be an added fanart by the wonderful emptymasks, so stay tune for that.
> 
> Enjoy!

A.Z Fell and Co., Antiquarian and Unusual Books, 2019

To start this story off right, it would be useless to point out that it was, in fact, a sunny morning in Soho, London. Sunny being a hyperbole, since what it really was was cloudy, and the sun just didn't feel like peeking out as much as it needed to. Out of shyness or out of pure indolence, one couldn't know, but at least it helped light a certain bookshop.

Said bookshop was one that never seemed to go out of business, even after years, we could say hundreds, of it being secluded and left alone by the general public. But that was fine, absolutely perfect, because one person, besides the times they were two, stayed within the dusty cocoa walls of said bookshop. It had been named "A.Z Fell and Co., Antiquarian and Unusual Books". Half of that sign was correct; it did, in fact, hold particular books that are, in the general public's knowledge, quite bizarre, like old prophecy books. The other half was a white lie, which, unironically, fit the person who told it "to a T". 

Firstly, the Co. at the end wasn't necessary, but felt right to put up, the owner loving how it sounded as he first said it out loud, those many years ago. Another possibility would be that, as mentioned before, there was another that stayed in the bookshop. Not often, and not for long, but just enough for the few customers that actually had the gall to come in to notice a change of air. 

Secondly, A. Z. Fell was the humanized name of that one person who not only took care of, but had owned the bookshop for those hundreds of years.

His real name was Aziraphale.

And he was, well, used to be, a principality serving the Lord.

That had changed for quite some time now. In fact, before the failed attempt of Armageddon, the End of Times, or more commonly known as "Oi, wasn't the weather a bit strange for the last couple of days?", Aziraphale had been an Angel of the Lord. Now he was simply an angel. Of books. And books, he had. More so than ever, thanks to Adam, the Anti Christ (oh, you know his title). There were some new editions lying about the chaotic space, yet Aziraphale knew exactly which were out of place. His trusted, but slow computer held the entire catalogue of the bookshop's treasures, and since he now had all the time in the world, Aziraphale slowly rummaged through the aisles to find, pick up, and catalogue each newcomer.

Now walking along the deep, humid and claustrophobic walls of his shop, Aziraphale pondered over this new schedule of his that stayed rather empty, now that Armageddon had been thwarted. The thought of it was quite refreshing. The addition of the angels leaving him to be forgotten was a nice cherry on the metaphorical cake (it most probably would be Devil's). As he reached to add another book into his arms, he thought of the possibilities of the near and far future.

Oh, what to do? There were so many options. With so much time ahead of him, what would he start with first?

It was the ring of a familiar bell that startled the angel from his thoughts. Remembering that he had indeed switched the sign to "Closed" (he had good reason too), and had kept the doors locked since yesterday night, there were two options before him. 

Either it was a burglar, a very poor one at the very least, or it was--

"Closed? On the Lord's day? My, how Armageddon's changed you."

Of course it was Crowley.

Smiling to no one in particular, Aziraphale gently came back to the front of the bookshops, arms heavy with new material. "Well, it is not the first time that I've closed shop a Sunday, and you are aware of the reason why," Aziraphale retorted playfully, his eyebrows flickering upwards as a smirk crept into the corner of his lips. He didn't intend to smirk, the angel actually intended to frown, remembering the hassle it had been to clean up after the demon's "prank".

Crowley chuckled, walking up the small stairs to join Aziraphale. "Oh, yes, I am indeed very aware, so aware, in fact," the demon assured, pursing his lips and tilting his head to the side, "I might feel a bit remorseful for what I had done."

Aziraphale asserted himself in front of Crowley, raising his nose slightly, smelling the playful sarcasm. Clearly, Crowley wasn't. "Well, if that is so," he started as he let a couple of books fall into Crowley's arms, to the demon's annoyance, "I hope this teaches you not to meddle with a bookshop keeper's books. Now, come along, Crowley, these books won't organise themselves." He paused, now an evident smirk forming on his lips. "In alphabetical order, my dear."

As both ethereal beings voyaged through the dusty corridors, Crowley groaned at the fact that Aziraphale had still not changed his piss-poor excuse of a computer (if he could even call it that) for something made, at least, in the last century. Aziraphale retorted that it was still working fine, so why procure a new one, it would ask too much of him to understand the new system.

"What if I teach you how to use it?" Crowley proposed.

"Oh, wouldn't it be a bother?" Aziraphale answered. "And like I said, it's--"

"Still plugged into the wall, angel!" Crowley exclaimed desperately. The demon, with a bit too much force, put a book atop others, getting a whoosh of dust onto his face. He coughed loudly, rubbing most of it off with his free hand. 

"It seems the books don't agree with you, either," Aziraphale stated.

"Oh, shut it."

Crowley fanned himself with the single book left in his hand, trying to dust himself off. Aziraphale, being a bit quicker than his partner, had already gone off to the front of the bookshop, probably preparing the tea kettle or glasses of wine. Hoping for the second option (there never was a wrong time to appreciate the exquisite taste of alcohol), Crowley came to join Aziraphale, his body already being eaten whole as the demon sat in one of his sofas. He could hear two object clink against each other, and knowing that familiar sound, Crowley's hopes became reality.

Aziraphale, now without his overcoat, gave Crowley one of the wine glasses filled with a delectable and now considered very expensive wine. He heard Crowley mutter a "thank you" before swirling the glass and taking a sip. Though, as Aziraphale sat down, he couldn't help but notice something rather unusual in the demon's lap. "I thought you weren't much of a reader, Crowley," the angel said as he himself tasted the wine. "Which book made you change your mind?"

At first, the demon hadn't understood what the angel meant at first. It was as he tried to free his other hand to try and drink the wine that he noticed; he still had that last book with him. As he put the glass to the side, Crowley flipped the book to see the cover.

Thankfully, he still had his glasses on. His eyes always seemed to be too obvious to Aziraphale (even if he was, at times, quite oblivious), so within a second, as he showed the book to the angel, his demeanor changed.

"The Phantom of the Opera! I almost forgot that this story had actually been published." Crowley flipped through the golden pages, curious. "I wonder what Leroux actually wrote in this, seeing as what happened was truly…"

"Ineffable, in a human's way of understanding." Aziraphale continued. He paused for a bit, sipping the wine as a means to calm himself from his nerves. "I actually read his book. Good story, but not as good as what really happened. Sadly, it was demanded for the actual events to stay under wraps, as they said, so Leroux, unbeknownst to him, had to improvise for certain scenes. Even certain characters."

Crowley raised his eyebrows.

"Shame that we couldn't be included, then."

The silence finally took its place between the two beings. It sat less than comfortably, knowing exactly what had happened in 1870's Paris, at the Opera Garnier. At least the wine was tasteful, because it was drunk dangerously fast between the two of them. Thought it did take dangerously high amounts of alcohol for celestials beings to get comfortably drunk.

And it was just getting started.


	2. Let's get tragic

Opéra Populaire, 1870

  
  


As it were, and always had, Aziraphale found himself in Paris once again. Whether it was for touristic reasons, to learn the language itself (he thought it'd be wise to actually speak it, especially when he'd stay for a bit), or to indulge in some crêpes, Paris was the city the angel loved to visit throughout the years. Even the incident in 1743 didn't stop him from coming back 124 years later, but this time, he found it quite reliable to be accompanied by a Frenchman that didn't want to decapitate him.

Inside the carrosse, Aziraphale sat across Raoul de Chagny, the son of the late Philbert de Chagny. Now a Vicomte, thanks to the riches his father had passed down to him, Raoul had decided to invest part of them into a spectacular establishment : the Opera Populaire. Aziraphale had been the official archivist for a few years in the Opera's official library, so their eventual meeting had already been set in stone. Both lovers of the arts, their friendship was inevitable.

"I do hope we arrive soon," Aziraphale muttered, hand placed upon his chest. He never did enjoy being inside a carriage. It was so feeble, so fragile, it bumped chaotically with every stone it met, and some drivers (especially this one) made it their pleasure to go past a certain socially accepted speed limit, and for what? The effectiveness of it made sense, but goodness was it nerve-inducing.

Raoul chuckled. "With the speed we're going at, my friend, we'll arrive soon enough."

Thankfully for the angel, the driver started slowing the speed of the horses. Aziraphale peeked through the tinted windows, seeing the familiar entrance to the Opera Populaire. Even with his working so near it, Aziraphale couldn't help but appreciate the gothic architecture. It wasn't his favorite, but its charm was something the angel had grown fond of. 

As the both of them stepped out, Aziraphale heard Raoul breathe out sharply, his hands on each side of his hips. The Vicomte stared eagerly at the stairs, then the door.  _ A new adventure awaits _ , it seemed he wanted to say.

"Hopefully the new owners are ready to receive us," he says instead.

___________________

Indeed, Raoul was right. As they stepped into the opera's doors, two men awaited them.

One was shorter than the other, wild grey hair imagined. His eyebrows danced up and down as the man changed from an excited expression to a stressed and uncertain one. 

From what Raoul had already explained to him, this was Gilles André.

The other standing next to him seemed younger, both in appearance and in state of mind. Though he had grey hairs, the man had swept them all behind, giving himself a combed and organised look, and the illusion that his grey strands were a meer trick of the light. His moustache was also cut to a point on each side, bushy, expressive, powerful, in a sense. It gave him the allure of knowing exactly what he was doing at all times. He was André Firmin. It was he who spoke first.

" _ Bienvenue, cher Vicomte, à l'Opéra Populaire. _ We have been impatiently awaiting your presence. The cast have just about finished their practice of Hannibal, come, let us introduce you."

Gilles André cleared his throat. 

"Ah yes, and fellow  _ archiviste _ Aziraphale, I hope you find your presence here welcome by all," added Firmin.

Aziraphale feinted a smile he would only present to his Superiors. "Of course,  _ monsieur _ ,  _ merci _ ."

The two owners grimaced a smile, stomping the awkwardness with the sound of their shoes on the newly polished grounds of the Opera. The more they advanced, the more Aziraphale could hear the sound of wheels moaning on the stage, the pitter-patter of feet rushing to wherever they needed to be, and a cacophony of voices merging as one with the orchestra.

As the four finally arrived backstage, they met with another man. The lines and shadows under his eyes, the untrimmed grey and black mustache and the glossy eyes were the simplest details that popped out in front of anyone who met him. He was  _ Monsieur _ Lefebvre, the current owner of the Opera Populaire. He asked for Aziraphale to stay behind the curtains, and brought the other three men to the front of the stage.

"Rehearsals, as you see, are underway for a new production of Chalumeau's Hannibal," he explained, raising his voice to sound louder than the now dying orchestra.

"Mr Lefebvre! We are in rehearsal!" yelled the maestro, a sigh escaping him, while there dancing teacher only looked slightly towards him, not letting this stop her daily stretch.

"Mr Reyer, Mme Giry, ladies and gentlemen, please, if I can have your attention please. Thank you." The whole cast turned around, the sound of silk and coins and metal clinking onto each other, whispered voices of  _ what's going on?  _ and  _ who are they?  _ circling around them. Aziraphale looked from afar, holding his interlocked hands over his stomach. He was no stranger to the Arts, especially not after having helped Shakespeare with some of his scene directions, though this was the first time he felt so unneeded in this subject. Unthought of.

"As you know, for some weeks there have been rumours of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these were all true, and it is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire,  _ Monsieur _ Richard Firmin and  _ Monsieur _ Gilles André." M. Lefebvre looked towards the two men, a smile not out of pride, but of relief. It seemed his retirement was long overdue. Even so, the cast around them applauded, Aziraphale himself included, and watched as the two owners waved amicably. Well, it was certainly more amicable than when they greeted him.

Firmin spoke first : "And we are deeply honoured to introduce our new patron…"

"The Vicomte de Chagny." Finished André.

Somehow the applause sounded a bit louder this time. Raoul grinned shyly, turning towards Aziraphale to attempt to share this moment with him. Aziraphale waved a hesitant hand, motioning to Raoul his appreciation. "I am honored to support all the arts, especially the world-renowned Opéra populaire."

The cast then, one by one, introduced themselves to the Vicomte. Firstly,  _ Señora  _ Carlotta Dutticelli _ ,  _ the leading soprano for five seasons.  _ Señor  _ Piangi, her husband, Joseph Buquet, the handler of the curtains and lights, and the list when on. Aziraphale admitted to feeling quite bored, though he kept that thought for himself. As he slipped farther into the darkness that was behind the curtains, the angel considered leaving the backstage, his presence, contrarily to what Firmin has said, not welcome by all.

Until he felt a light tap on his right shoulder, finding himself once again fooled by the simple trickery that was this greeting by a particular trickster.

"Fool you once, shame on me, but now twice? You're getting rusty, angel."

Turning to the left, Aziraphale laid his eyes on a new version of Crowley; he wore a burgundy frock coat, the cut of it putting emphasis on his hips. An Ascot-knotted cravat wrapped around his neck, and Aziraphale noticed the small red apple cravat pin that was sneakingly put on the side. What surprised him most was the return of long hair, after previously having it shortened in the 1700s. It resembled the style of George Bryan Brummell, shorter strands of hair covering Crowley's face, while the back of it laid curled on his shoulders and on his back. Long sideburns disappeared as soon as they connected with his chin, giving himself more of an English style than French. 

It reminded him of Eden.

"Crowley..."

It was all he was able to say at first. Seeing the demon here, of all places, wouldn't usually be surprising (with all the thwarting and whatnot, they were always near each other), but after their little disagreement in 1862, and no contact whatsoever, Aziraphale had been pleasantly and anxiously surprised. Of course, 8 years was minuscule compared to the thousands of years they had been socialising, but no postage, no sudden appearance of "Hello, angel" 's, it was simply silence.

As he was about to question the demon, the shrill voice of Carlotta echoed in the Opera.

"A day! All they a-want is a-dancing!"

The angel turned his head at the sudden commotion. It appeared that the diva was going into another fit. Something about the new managers being too fond of the dancers, and having the limelight stolen from her. The two managers went to grovel to her, feeding her forced and improvised compliments.

"Already causing trouble?" Aziraphale taunted, his previous thoughts put aside. For now.

Crowley snickered. "Oh no, she's doing that all on her own. I haven't even started doing anything."

Aziraphale eyed him with a raised brow.

"Yet." Crowley added.

"Typical."

Somehow it seemed that the argument with Carlotta had been resolved, and they asked her to sing once again, now Elise's solo in Hannibal during Act 3, named  _ Think of Me _ . As many stage people put earplugs into their ears, Aziraphale heard the quick creaking of wheels. He looked up, seeing movement between the paddles that stayed high up over the stage. He had assumed it was simply Buquet managing the decor, but the man was busy smoking his cigarette.

So who was the one-?

Suddenly, the ropes groaned as they released two enveloped stage backgrounds. As one spun downwards towards Carlotta, another came alarmingly quickly towards the two celestial beings. Aziraphale's warrior instincts emerged, his arm wrapping itself around Crowley's waist, pulling him backwards as the wooden beam cracked onto the floor. 

The shrieks of humans piercing the angel's ears as he felt his heart hit against Crowley's back. He could feel Crowley's heavy breaths escape him, his chest swelling up and down against his arms. 

"Buquet!" screamed Mr. Lefebvre, "For God's sake, man, what's going on there?"

"Please, monsieur, don't look at at me, as God's my judge, I was not at my post. Please, monsieur, there's no one there." Buquet paused, smirking eerily as he chuckled. " Or if there is, well then, it must be a ghost…"

The cast murmured anxiously as Carlotta begged for someone to take off the stupid beam off of her.

Aziraphale hadn't been listening to the rucus though. Subconsciously, Aziraphale tightened his grip around Crowley. His thoughts had been racing, questions circling his mind. He had definitely seen that someone was there, that they tried to attack not only Carlotta, but them as well. Why them? They hadn't even been introduced. And a ghost? No, that was a person, a human. Aziraphale's eyes had not betrayed him. 

And ghosts do not exist.


	3. A two-for-one special of flirting and intrigue

A.Z Fell and Co., Antiquarian and Unusual Books, 2019

  
  


Crowley twirled his glass of wine. He eyed it curiously, then lifted his eyes to the angel that sat in front of him. He downed the last of it, licking his lips.

"That was new."

"Oh, yes, indeed, putting strawberries in the wine is-"

"No, well, yes. But no, that wasn't what I wanted to say, Aziraphale."

The angel raised his eyebrows, patiently waiting for what came next. He was at his, if he remembered correctly, 6th glass of wine. That was another thing celestial beings had a high tolerance for; alcohol. So, if humans need two or three glasses of wine to feel giddily lightheaded, angels and especially experienced demons needed way more. So Aziraphale, if he were honest, would say that he was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded.

"I mean, that, what happened, that was new. The whole grabbing out of harm's way. You had never done that before."

Crowley silently cursed the wine. In normal, sober conditions, this wouldn't have slipped from him. Even with him and Aziraphale being closer than they once had been, communication wasn't his strong suit. Expressing emotions had been something he hardwired himself to never do, especially not to Aziraphale. Of course, when alcohol was added, inhibitions sometimes fell to the floor, hard. As if they never existed.

"You're wrong, you know?" Aziraphale corrected. "Eden, for example. During the First Pour."

Crowley adjusted himself in his seat, putting his hands under his chin, pouting his lips. This wasn't necessarily something the angel didn't do much, he adored proving the demon wrong. What was different was that this particular subject concerned him. Aziraphale hadn't denied that what had he done, in other words, was protect the demon from harm. Of course, the Arrangement had been long put in place, but only after Eden. So, these two situations were the same in Aziraphale's eyes. Crowley smirked.

"Nah, that doesn't count. I wasn't in danger then, angel. It wasn't Holy Water."

Aziraphale raised a brow.

"How would you know? You didn't get any on you, thanks to me shielding you with my wing."

Crowley almost stayed agape. This side of Aziraphale, when enhanced by alcohol, was truly a sweet melody to Crowley's ears. It swam in pride, a sin he himself had not tempted with much, since others were much easier to influence with. But Aziraphale's way of using it to his advantage, the way he added hints of coyness into it, all to tease Crowley, to demonstrate how he too could play this game of verbal cat and mouse. It appeared to Aziraphale that Crowley was losing. But Crowley was truly winning.

"Should I be thanking you, then?"

Aziraphale smiled into his glass.

"After approximately a hundred and fifty years, I do believe that it is long overdue, my dear."

Crowley scoffed. "Someone doesn't remember the gala."

The angel's eyes widened, his attention span rather small when drowned in alcohol. "Oh, yes, after Christine's performance! You know, I was so content to hear when Firmin and André let her take the role. She deserved it."

"Sure it wasn't a miracle, angel?"

"No, no, what I miracled was Carlotta's broken ribs. Poor woman had suffered enough, I thought it would have helped."

"Didn't help her attitude."

Aziraphale gave Crowley a look.

"Then she left soon after. And didn't come back for a while… Even Christine left, for 5 days, without telling anyone, not even Raoul. That was after the gala, though…" Aziraphale paused, his eyes barely open as he turned to Crowley, a question clearly burning in his mind, but stayed at bay. "And you had disappeared too. Right as Christine did."

A pause struck the conversation.

Well, after this long, the demon thought it wouldn't be harmful to be truthful about the past. For once.

"I did," Crowley finally said.

"So you admit it. After a hundred and fifty years. That you disappeared on me. See, was it that hard?"

"Yes, yes, it was,  _ actually _ , and it would have been harder then."

"Oh it wouldn't have."

Now it was Crowley who gave Aziraphale a look.

"Then let me share my side of the story, angel."

___________________

Opera Populaire, 1870

The night had been a success. As the theatre slowly emptied itself from its full house of guests, the two managers, Firmin and André, went to join some guests in the gala room to celebrate. "Celebrate" in the sense where they'd drink suspiciously large quantities of alcohol and banter with anyone who they knew had big pockets, especially if their daughters were deemed delicious enough to salivate onto.

Crowley stood near a darker hallway, admiring people from afar. While he was one to partake in celebrations and drink copious amounts of alcohol, nagging thoughts kept him concerned.

Aziraphale was here, in Paris, in the Opéra Populaire. Had the angel followed him here? After all, they had left on very bad terms, the angel calling their friendship some sort of "fraternizing" between them. The simple word fumed Crowley, an unconscious grimace twisting the lines of his face. All he asked for was Holy Water for reassurance! He would keep it locked away, safe, until there would be a time for its usage. And what would it matter if a demon had Holy Water, Heaven couldn't care less. Hell wouldn't be too happy to hear that Crowley had a weapon of that calibre with him, but they wouldn't even know about its existence because, for one, they never keep tabs, and two, they would never know.

Speaking of Hell, they were the reason why Crowley had been awakened by his nap in the first place. Needless to say, he was less than pleased. It had only been eight years after his and Aziraphale's conflict, so of course, his only way of coping was to fall into an eternal sleep. Well, it  _ would _ have been eternal if Hastur hadn't burned him with Hellfire to wake him up. 

What a prick.

"Crowley!"

Turning towards the voice, Crowley already knew who had called him. A raised eyebrow was his response to the call. He was surprised; he hadn't expect Aziraphale to come hurringly after him to speak with him. It was as if their eight year argument had never happened.

"I'm glad I caught up to you, I thought I wouldn't be able to speak with you," huffed Aziraphale.

_ 'I guess every one's a surprise' _ , thought Crowley. 

"Well, you succeeded, especially after screaming like that, of course you'd grab my attention."

Aziraphale laughed nervously, eyeing the floor, his pinky finger tapping the side of his own wine glass. Crowley couldn't stop himself from noticing a light tint of pink that colored the angel's fair skin. But he could choose to ignore it. 

"So, what was so important that you had to call me across the room, Aziraphale?"

Once again, the angel avoided Crowley's gaze, as is staring into his eyes were blasphemous. Was it guilt? Was it nervousness? Was it both? Usually one would lead to the other. 

"Oh, well, I just, it's been a while, hasn't it?" Aziraphale babbled.

"It has."

"Eight years, and now…"

_ Oh, you counted. _

"Here we are."

Oh Lor- Sata-, this was going dreadfully. Quick, change the subject.

"I take back what I said," Crowley finally said.

"What?"

"You aren't so rusty after all, angel."

The demon saw his angel purse his lips into a thin line, his eyes looking back at the floor. Somehow, a miracle disguised as a curse came to save both of these ethereal idiots from their more than awkward conversation. That miracle's name was Raoul.

" _ Monsieur _ Aziraphale,  _ Monsieur _ Crowley, please, I need your help!"

The Vicomte's usually well combed-hair was a mess from his recent run, his eyes wide open and his eyebrows frozen in a state of panic. 

" _ Respirez,  _ breathe, Raoul, we can barely understand you," Aziraphale whispered worryingly. "What happened?"

After a few long breaths, Raoul whispered back : "Christine! I, I went to her door, and I knocked, but she didn't hear me. But I heard strange sounds,  _ mon ami _ , voices calling to her from inside her room, when I knew she was left alone. I tried getting inside but the door was locked tight,  _ je n'ai pas pu rentrer. _ " Raoul paused, looking now at Crowley. "Do you think what Buquet said was true? Did the Phantom take Chrstine away?"

Crowley looked to see Aziraphale's face had turned slightly white. Usually, even if the angel felt nervousness, it would never have been this intense of a reaction.

Was he actually scared?

Crowley saw Aziraphale put his hand on the Vicomte's shoulder.

"Show us her room, Raoul."

___________________

Crowley tried to turn the doorknob. Indeed, it was locked.

With a small devilish miracle, he easily opened the door, raising no questions from Raoul. The boy was innocent enough, and currently on panicked adrenaline, so as long as Crowley found a way to open the door, he hadn't had anything to add.

As three personnages entered the room, Raoul explained that nothing had changed, that nothing was out of place. Indeed, the room felt chaotically organised. In front of them was the  _ bureau _ where stood a beautiful mirror, with sofas sat on each side of the room. Flowers flooded the room, yet something caught Crowley's eye. One glass object, that stood to the side, the reflection slightly see-through. This he kept to himself.

"You should go look inside the Opera, Raoul. You were probably hearing things,  _ Vicomte _ . She isn't here," Crowley stated.

" _ Je n'ai pas halluciné, monsieur _ Crowley. I did hear the voice in that room, as clear as I am hearing you right now."

Crowley sighed. This young man looked desperate. But he couldn't tell him. He couldn't show him what he saw.

The demon turned to Aziraphale, motioning to him to leave with the boy. Aziraphale exchanged a worried look with Crowley, but understood, saying to Raoul : "Come, we will look for her together, we will find her."

His last look to the demon said :  _ You will speak of what you find to me. _

Crowley wouldn't hold onto this promise.

Not until a fateful night in a small bookshop.

The doors closed in front of him.


	4. Love is an Open Door (Actually, it's a Mirror)

Crowley turned his heels to walk towards the suspicious object he had spotted when first walking in. 

The mirror.

At first glance, it appeared like any mirror. It was why he hadn't paid much attention to it, mostly because there were a handful of other mirrors far more decorative than this one. It was enveloped by a black frame, and behind it was a long, dark cape. Usually, mirrors didn't have capes.

Crowley stared into the mirror, finding himself faced with his reflection. Seeing as nobody but him was inside the room, he took off his spectacles, his thin irises piercing through the glass. It seemed as if his other self was a bit foggy, something that would be faulty from an uncleaned mirror. But this one was spotless. So, he went for another tell. As he frowned, his eyes looking ahead into the mirror, he pressed his finger to the glass. 

In theory, if this mirror were a real mirror, the finger he had just pressed would simply "touch" his reflection, meaning his doubts were (uncalled for), and so, he could go report back to Aziraphale that nothing had happened in the room.

In reality, there was a space between both fingers.

This was a double sided mirror.

Now why would Christine have this in her room?

As he tsked, Crowley passed his hands over the mirror's frame, starting with the top. He slid his hands onto the sides, where he felt a small latch to his left. He opened it.

The mirror, that was actually a door, opened. Crowley stepped inside, his nose scrunching as he smelled smoke and sewage. The darkness wasn't a disadvantage, especially since he was, in fact, a demon. The darkness was something they thrived in. So, he took off his spectacles. As he walked slowly amongst the long and wet corridor, Crowley couldn't help but look behind him. Should he go tell Aziraphale about this? Clearly this was something to report back to him. Then he thought back to their conversation. It had been so... Mismanaged. No, he had to keep going. 

Eight years, he had slept! Eight blissful, ignorant years of unconsciousness, drifting away in his subconsciousness. In a world where things went better. Went his way. 

And he had planned on sleeping many more, not that Hell cared. Of course not, not with that kind of awakening he had. Burned him with Hellfire is what they did, because he hadn't answered any of their letters. Nor their carriers.

Frankly, who even answered when a devil comes knocking at your door?

Would be a simple mission, they said. Demons had started disappearing and the more Hell sent over in the Opera Populaire to investigate, the less any of them came back. Crowley figured they just stayed because Paris was way more interesting than staying in the sewer that was Hell. 

Yes, Paris. Frankly, he shouldn't have been surprised seeing Aziraphale here, since, well, it was the city of love and all. Though, even if angels were filled with Love, it wasn't necessarily the same type of love that the city was recognised for.

An angel's love is infinite. It is filled with curiosity, with wonder, it appreciates all living things and sees the best in people. Almost like a child.

And like any children, some of them were pricks.

And if an angel's love was so parental and platonic, than a demon's was all but.

Because yes, demons have the capacity, at times, to love.

Angels who say demons can't Love are not wrong. No, demons cannot Love in the sense where they don't receive God's Love anymore; they cannot feel her Love, nor share it with their counterparts. That was ripped from them as they Fell.

But something like love, the human terminology, that was something quite different.

Some loved torture, whilst other loved lying. Some pass their time giving too much love to Hell's walls (there wasn't a sign there for nothing), and others loved tempting humans to commit sins to secure their souls to the Dark Lord Himself, Satan.

Crowley's interests were quite... Different. Throughout the centuries, he indulged in alcohol, he adorned different clothes and hairstyles. Instead of tempting, he gave humans a choice. Sure, he had a high stance within the demon hierarchy, but most of it had been achieved by lying about a couple horrific historical events that were actually humans' doing. And then there was Aziraphale.

For Chr- someone's sake, he stood aside an angel! An angel that was a poor excuse of one, too. The angel was a hedonist, a glutton, a piss poor fighter, a lousy intimidator, and worst of all, the angel chose to stay alongside a demon. He even decided to have an Arrangement with him. If Aziraphale wasn't a good angel, then Crowley wasn't an exemplary demon.

So, what were they?

"Argh, wha-?"

Crowley, not realising that the floor has transitioned into small underground lake, noticed that he stepped into ankle-deep water. As he tsked in irritation, he continued walking, knowing he'd have to miracle them dry if ever he found dry ground.

A few minutes later, Crowley saw light at the end of the tunnel. He squinted, putting back his spectacles. As he approached the cave's opening, he saw chandeliers that had risen out of the water, lighting the room. A boat had stayed ashore some steps, these leading to what he saw was a piano. Next to it were expensive-looking sheets, as if the space were a large children's fort. Finally free from the water, Crowley miracled his shoes dry, looking around for any proof other than the decor of someone's presence.

To his right, he saw a glamorous swan-shaped bed peeking through translucent curtains, the covers in a dark velvet red color. And under those covers, sleeping, was Christine.

"Oh, it seems I have a guest."

Crowley turned his head to the left, locking eyes and spectacles with a man that stood in front of him. He wore a simple cotton button shirt, black pants, normal things, really, but the strangest of all was the mask covering half his face. 

The person in the mask smiled. " _ Bienvenue _ to my humble domaine, Crawly. I hope you feel welcome in this charitable place I call home."

Crowley stayed silent, eyebrows slightly frowned. The fact that this man knew of Crowley's original demon name only meant one thing. 

"Well, Crawly, I'm sure you have many questions. I'll start by answering one; my name is  _ le F-" _

"Phantom of the Opera, yep, I could've guessed. Anyone could, really."

The Phantom's left eye twitched in annoyance. 

"Of course, why would I expect any less of a demon to be disrespectful towards me?"

Crowley raised his eyebrows.

"Well, takes one to know one, doesn't it?"

Crowley had noticed a demonic presence as he first stepped onto the stage with Aziraphale. As the wooden beams descended onto them, one nearly discorporating both of them, Crowley felt the leftover of the use of a demonic miracle, and he knew it wasn't his own. This demon couldn't be subtle even if he tried.

"Well, now that it's settled, I'd like to have a little chat. I've been tasked to get to gather some information on some missing demons, would you know anything about this?"

That seemed to peak the interest of the Phantom. He smiled, slowly walking to the right, probably for dramatic purposes. 

"Oh,  _ les démons disparus _ , they never really did disappear,  _ tu sais _ ?"

Crowley looked at the Phantom with boredom, seeing as this question absolutely did not answer his own. Who answers a question with another question?

" _ D'accord _ , I'll bite, where are they?"

The Phantom smirked.

"Have you ever thought of a world where Hell had no power over you, Crawly? Where you could roam freely, do as you please, without Hell breathing on your neck? To simply… Exist? That is the reason why I decided to leave that horrid place in secrecy and live here, in Paris, under the Opera Populaire. Here, I am given the luxury of Living. Here, I have no one to answer to but myself. Thanks to that, I have the freedom to choose.  _ La liberté du choix _ ." The Phantom looked over at Christine, a small smile on his lips. "And with that, I have the liberty to love."

The Phantom approached Crowley, standing face to face with him. 

"_N'aimerais-tu pas avoir_ _la liberté d'aimer, _Crawly?"

Crowley grimaced.

"Look, I don't know what game you're playing here, but consider me uninterested. Try and start a revolution for all I care, it has nothing to do with me."

The Phantom growled, his voice loud and aggressive.

"How dare you act so blazé to the unfairness that is our situation, you lazy, inconsiderate and poor excuse of a demon."

Crowley passed a hand into his long hair, pushing it behind his ear. The Phantom's threats sounded desperate at best. If he had decided to actually research about Crowley, he would have learned that he was a favored demon in the praises of Prince Beelzebub themself, so being this level of disrespectful with him was laughable. 

"Believe me, a world where Hell wasn't a looming presence, as much as Heaven is, does sound very enticing," he started as he slowly walked towards the Phantom. "But not enough. I'm  _ the _ Serpent of Eden, the Original Tempter, so I know a poor choice when I see one, Phantom. You never were a good dealer, not in Hell, and not here."

As he walked, the Phantom thumped his feet on the ground, his whole tantrum looking like a child that was told "no" when they asked for a toy. It was truly incredible to watch see this arrogant, self-centered and prideful demon be reduced to what he truly was; a toddler.

And there the toddler stood; speechless.

"Well, dear Phantom, now that I have my information, thanks to you, really, solid work, I'll be heading off. I have other more important matters to attend to."

When Crowley turned to leave, the Phantom bit his lip, searching for something to say. He had to break the Tempter at all costs.

Then he smiled wickedly.

"Oh, like your angel?"

Crowley stood in place.

" _ What _ ?"

"You'd think I wouldn't notice? Who do you think sent you your welcoming present the first day you arrived at the Opera?"

Crowley scoffed, his tone dry and harsh.

"What a lousy gift."

"Well, expect many more if you wish to release war upon me, Crawly. And I wouldn't stay close to your angel, if I were you, imagine the things that would happen if you stayed close to him… Demons always bring bad luck wherever they go."


	5. Tiana ain't got nothing on Carlotta, the real Frog Princess

Opera Populaire, 1870

5 days after Christine and Crowley's disappearance.

  
  


Aziraphale ran into the Opera House, heels clapping against the floor. He huffed as he was greeted by the two managers, Carlotta, Piangi and Raoul, all shouting at each other (to be honest, it was mostly Carlotta).

"Have you seen him?" He asked, breath escaping him. "Where is he?"

Carlotta turned to look at him, aggressively flailing her arms in his direction.

"Finally, someone-a not concerned with poor little miss Christine!"

"Oh, has- has she come back, Signora Carlotta?"

Carlotta shrieked, her head fuming.

"Like I have already told them, monsieur Aziraphale, Christine has returned from visiting the Phantom of the Opera. She is now resting, we must leave her be." said Madame Giry, her eyes showing restlessness herself. For such a poised woman, Aziraphale knew that she put too much on her shoulders.

"Christine, Christine, ma! It's all a ploy to help Christine!" yelled Carlotta.

As she descended the opera stairs, Firmin and André followed quickly after her, flowering her with compliments. In the meantime, Raoul walked towards Aziraphale, putting his hand on the angel's shoulder.

" _ Ils sont comme ça depuis mon arrivée _ ," murmured the Vicomte. "Ever since we have received these letters, it's been chaos. The Phantom demands that Christine be the lead singer in the next opera, Il Muto, whilst Carlotta has the silent role, and so Carlotta is…" They both looked other, seeing Carlotta dramatically cry while the two Opera owners tried to comfort her. " _ Voilà, tu comprends _ . I want to meet with Christine, ask her where she has been for these past days, but Madame Giry is resilient." Then, Raoul brought Aziraphale a little closer, so his whispers were barely tangible. "And this Phantom worries me, Aziraphale." Raoul shows him his letter. " **Do not fear for Miss Daaé. The Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again** ." Raoul huffed softly, bringing in his lips to bite them. "Christine had spoken to me about this Angel of Music, but it is simply a tale, something her father told her when she was young. I am worried for her, I am worried for all of us."

"Then you must stay by her side, Raoul," Aziraphale said with conviction. This wasn't even said to help the mission Aziraphale had been put into by Heaven. Raoul was like a son to him, and the Vicomte deserved a good life with Christine, especially when he knew both of them loved each other. "Do not let someone put fear into your heart, my boy, let love lead you with courage and strength. When Christine is ready to receive guests, go to her, speak with her, and listen. She may help us unmask who this Phantom really is."

Raoul smiled, squeezing Aziraphale's shoulder. "Merci, Aziraphale, you are a good friend."

Both men hugged, Aziraphale leaving Raoul with the two owners. As he walked further into the Opera House, he reached into his breast pocket, revealing a resembling letter to the one Raoul had gotten.

Indeed, he had received a letter from the O.G. himself. And the angel was not pleased.

He looked at it, his stomach churning. He couldn't possibly read it again.

Aziraphale clenched the letter in his sweaty fist. This Opera Ghost had been toying with all of them since the beginning, trying to scare the humans and himself away from his personal sanctuary. But Aziraphale had a mission to accomplish from Heaven, that of insuring Christine and Raoul's romantic ties. To be frank, if it weren't for the Phantom, Aziraphale would not have much to do. The way they looked at each other, the way Raoul spoke of her, and vice versa… It was already set in stone.

But that Phantom… not only had he tormented Carlotta for years, but he dare attack himself and Crowley, and now returned a kidnapped Christine. Surely this man had to be stopped, not only because he was a menace to his mission, but because he was a dangerous man

He attacked them, for Heaven's sake. And they were nearly discorporated if not for Aziraphale protecting Crowley.

Speaking of Crowley… He had to meet Crowley, but last the angel had heard of Crowley was when the demon stayed behind to search inside Christine's room. Since then, it had been complete silence. It seemed to become a repetitive situation, and the angel hadn't grown accustomed to it the more it happened. Actually, it worried him more.

Their conversations, or lack thereof, had been brief, awkward, and nowhere near informative. Granted, both of them were no good at expressing whatever it was they wanted to say to each other, especially under stressed contexts. But at least Aziraphale tried. He attempted to speak with Crowley and it seemed that Faith would not let them converse.

Was it a Message from God? That he should stop fraternizing with a demon? Had She found out, and tried, within Her mysterious ways, to pull them apart?

No, no, God was a bit more obvious. She would have manifested and told him something by now.

And he wouldn't call it fraternizing. Well, he would, out loud, but frankly… After eight years of complete and utter silence, Aziraphale realised that he enjoyed the demon's presence. Granted, Crowley the only being in which he can confide in a sea of humans was comforting, even if, at the very beginning, he had been apprehensive. Actually, his first impression of the demon had been positive. Actually, he had been quite nice. Complimenting him and all. Saying that the angel couldn't have possibly done something wrong, he was, well, an angel.

Suddenly, he heard commotion from behind him. It appeared to be Firmon, André and Carlotta, followed by the Opera Crew. It was a cacophony of sound, like woodpeckers all pecking at the same tree. Some costume designers hurried their walk as they tried to fit Carlotta in a huge white wig, covered in bows and flowers. But, wasn’t that costume made for the lead..?

Realisation hit.

Carlotta was going to be the lead, while Christine was going to play the silent role of the Pageboy.

__________________

Opening night in the Opera House, weeks later, 1870

It was opening night for  _ Il Muto _ . The hundreds of guests filled the seats quickly, the ruckus of complains about the seat findings evident in the air. The chandelier in the middle of the room lit solemnly as Joseph Buquet walked alongside the wooden boards, awaiting the beginning of the opera.

Aziraphale sat in booth 3, near the upper corner of the Opera. It had been 3 weeks since the letter incident, and within these 3 weeks, Aziraphale had not seen Crowley. His worry had transformed into anxiety, and this had transformed into irritation. One that Aziraphale tamed at bay, for wrath was a Sin, not a virtue. Though, being virtuous was proving to be quite difficult, especially when Crowley suddenly entered the booth.

"Oh, hello Aziraphale," he said as if they hadn't spoken in weeks.

"Crowley," the angel responded dryly. He looked as stiff as he had been when he had first met the demon in the Garden of Eden.

Crowley recognized this, but decided to ignore it. He decided to try and lighten the mood.

“Excited to hear Carlotta croak out her songs, angel?”

Azirapahale turned to give Crowley a look, one that stated that he was not in the mood for funny banter.

"Actually, yes, there is nothing fundamentally wrong with her voice, my dear. She expressed what she desired, and got the role. There is nothing wrong with communication, especially when it is to mention to the other person what your intentions are." Aziraphale put his hands on his thighs, as if he were drumming a beat. "One would dare to say that communication is the solution to many problems, wouldn't you agree?"

Indeed, wrath was a sin. But pettiness wasn't, and so petty he would be.

"Aziraphale, are you suggesting-?"

"Now is not the time, dearest, the opera is about to start."

And as the side lanterns lowered their light, the curtains opened, revealing a cast of French  _ bourgeoisie,  _ Carlotta and Christine. The subtext was quite amusing, really. Carlotta's character was a rich wife having an affair with Christine, playing the page boy, behind her husband's back. And it started rather lovely, until a voice boomed into the room.

**"Had I not instructed that Box 5 was to be kept empty?"**

Murmurs and questions rose in the air, like smoke from a fire. Aziraphale turned to Crowley, realising that behind his spectacles, his eyes grew wide, and he intensely scoured the Opera in search of… something. Or someone. When he turned back to see what had gone on stage, he saw Carlotta walked towards the back of the stage, as did the others. He noticed a crew member spray some sort of voice smoother in her throat.

Thinking not much of it, Aziraphale returned his attention to the opera, as all actors came back on stage to perform. And, as Carlotta started to sing, suddenly, she actually, croaked.

Like a frog.

The diva tried to compose herself and try to sing her high notes, but it was too late. She continued to croak, the laughs of the audience mixing in with her failed attempts at singing.

Quickly, Firmin and André closed the curtains, and spoke to the audience. They expressed their sincerest apologies, and explained that whilst they audience would wait, they would show the ballet in Act 3 of the opera, and that Christine would replace Carlotta as the lead singer.

"Won't be needing these earplugs anymore, now, will I?"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to comment on how impolite the demon was being. But as he thought of how Crowley said those words, the intonations and all, it seemed that his voice hid a sort of shakiness to it. Was it Aziraphale's imagination? As he looked at the mess that was the ballet (really, there were ribbons everywhere, the sheep were walking in all sorts of directions, it was laughable), he let his mind wander in clouds of thoughts.

And then he heard a noise. The noise of wooden boards creaking under pressure.

Exactly like when Aziraphale and Crowley had first been attacked.

Then, a noose fell into the middle of the stage.

But it wasn't empty.

There was a moment of silence, as if what the guests were seeing was too great of a misfortune to dare comment through shrieks.

They came seconds later, though. It was bound to happen.

Panic overtook the opera room. The guests sitting on the floor ran towards the doors, looking like wild boars running over each other. The dancers ran towards the edges of the stage, holding each other out of fear of being left on stage. Aziraphale exchanged a look with Raoul, and the boy ran out of his booth, headed to run after Christine.

Aziraphale stared at what had frightened the guests. It was a body. It hung from the ceiling. It flayed from side to side, a clear seizure occurring during the body's last seconds of life. It turned and shook, swaying from all sides, barely grazing the dancers on stage.

And then it stopped.

Aziraphale knew who this man was.

It was the same man who taunted the cast members on his arrival.

Joseph Buquet was dead.

Aziraphale turned to meet Crowley's feared expression, both looking at each other as if they were about to be smited at once.

And maybe they would be.

Crowley grabbed onto Aziraphale, holding him as tight as he possibly could, and snapped his fingers.


	6. Halloween Couple's Costumes Goals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter, meaning, artwork!
> 
> The lovely piece was made by emptymasks(damien) on discord, here are their links.  
They were such a blast to work with!  
Go check their stuff out!
> 
> [their tumblr](https://emptymasks.tumblr.com/) [their instagram](https://www.instagram.com/emptymasks/) [their twitter](https://twitter.com/emptymasks)

Opéra Populaire, 1871.

3 months after the accident.

To help raise a more positive reputation of the Opera Populaire, Firmin and André had decided to organise a masquerade ball.

The inside of the room buzzed with excitement as guests filled the ballroom. Guests arrived in an assortment of flashy colors, ranging from blues to reds to metallics, their heavy coats and dressed weighing their worries away, and pushing old memories down to the ground. Their looks ranged from the simple mask, to animals, or even disfigured, exaggerated versions of expressions.

Crowley, however, decided to dress in another typical thematic, irony oozing out of his costume. He wore a white waistcoat atop a golden shirt, the metallic hue shining under the chandelier's light. White gloves covered his hands, and they matched perfectly with the white tights he had put under his golden trousers. Finally, a long white cape covered his shoulders. His long auburn hair had been pushed to the back apart from two strands that stayed in front. They were curled to perfection, bouncing across his back as he walked. Though his mask stole the show, evidently. It poked reference to the theatre masks, this one having a heavy smile on its face. On each side of the mask were small wings glistening in the light. Finally, atop his head laid a halo.

He stared at the floor, his mood unchanged since the night of _ Il Muto _. It was rare for him to feel so vulnerable. He despised the feeling. True, he could have just left after he had received the information needed by the Phantom, but he had to stay to keep an eye for Aziraphale. Yes, quite contrary to what the Phantom had told him to do, but like a bee to a flower, one couldn't simply stop visiting the other. Both ecosystems would collapse. Everything would.

So, he came to the masquerade, tried changing his ideas.

But dressing up as an angel wasn't truly the smartest of ideas, especially when he tried to rid his thoughts from a specific one.

He did look dazzling, though, that he knew.

In the corner of his eye, not too far from waiter, Crowley noticed a particular costume. The first thing that attracted his eye was the piercing navy blue overcoat the person wore. Their shirt let white ruffles run down the sleeves and the neck, silver designs mixing in with the ruffles. The mask on their face showed a crying face, one similar to Crowley’s smiling one. The most unique part of their costume was the ram horns placed neatly on the side of their head, their beautiful maroon color shining under the light. 

And between those horns were a most beautiful assortment of white locks.

The noise of the small band tuning their instruments stole Crowley’s attention. From such a small distraction, he hadn't even noticed that the demon character had walked towards his direction. Granted, for the first dance of the night, it was quite fitting for an angel and a demon to dance together. The person in the demon costume arrived in front of Crowley, giving him his hand as an indication that they would like him to follow them. Hesitantly, Crowley brought his hand up, his hand nearly trembling. Goodness, get a grip, Crowley! Finally, Crowley grabbed the other's hand, following him towards the dancefloor.

Surprisingly though, the other had not stopped to dance in the ballroom. 

As they walked towards the end of a corridor, Crowley noticed the lights had dimmed immensely compared the the blinding colors in the ballroom. 

"Where are we headed, Aziraphale?" Asked Crowley.

At first, the angel didn't answer, only squeezing his hand tighter around Crowley's. It seemed he had to trust his angel. Which, to be frank, wasn't something hard to do.

As they walked further into the corridor, Aziraphale stopped in front of a wall. With a snap of his fingers, a door appeared out of thin air, and opened itself up to the visitors. 

"After you, _ angel, _" Aziraphale chuckled softly.

Crowley took his turn to also take off his mask, entering the uncovered room.

It was quite small, mostly because there were mountains of books laid chaotically on the floor, all covered with different layers of dust. Lights cleared the room as Aziraphale murmured "Let there be light". It wasn't necessarily needed for Crowley, but having this simple light felt comforting. In the corner of the room was a table, so both celestial entities posed their masks on top of it.

"We are in my future bookshop, Crowley." It was like a secret to Aziraphale, something no one, not even the Archangels knew about. Something he had decided on finally doing. "This is my storage space for all of the books I have gathered through the centuries. Here, we are safe. I doubt even the Phantom knows this room exists."

Safe. The word resonated in Crowley's ears.

This meant they were undeniably alone.

"Aziraphale, I… Thank you." Those words were simple, yet they held so much significance. _ Thank you for putting your trust in me, thank you for being vulnerable with me, thank you for bringing me with you, showing me that you want to protect me as much as I want to protect you _.

_ Thank you for showing me that you care for me as much as I do you. _

"Oh, it's my pleasure, especially since," Aziraphale sighed, a small smile creeping up his lips, " we have so much to talk about, no? I thought privacy was needed in our case."

Aziraphale paused.

"I was worried, Crowley. You hadn't spoken to me in weeks, or had actually come to meet me, I presumed you had disappeared, or had been kidnapped, like Christine."

_ Why did you leave me all alone? _

"I had my reasons."

"Then tell me."

"You wouldn't understand."

"I think I would, my boy. I saw how you were when the Phantom's voice resonated in the room. You were as frightened as I was."

"I was not."

_ I was terrified _.

"Do not lie to me, Crowley, now is not the time. To be quite honest with you, I was frightened myself." Aziraphale fiddled in his inner pocket, taking a folder paper out of it. "Read it, you'll understand."

Crowley took the piece of paper, unfolding it carefully. It read :

**A most hospitable welcome to you, Aziraphale. I had hoped that my welcoming present taught you that I am not one to be meddled with.. If you are to attempt to foil my plans once again, know that my wrath will be sent your way, and that your demon will pay the price.**

Crowley couldn't believe the words he read.

"He sent this to you?"

Aziraphale squirmed in place.

"Yes, a few hours before Christine was found, unharmed. So naturally, I desperately tried to find you."

"But I had just…"

"What, what is it, my dear boy?"

"I had spoken with him before all of the letters had been sent. My, he must have been really cross with me."

"You _ met _ with him?"

"Well, not deliberately, angel. You asked me to look into Christine's room, turns out she had a mirror that brought her straight to his underground layer."

"Oh. Well that explains her disappearance. And why you avoided me."

"I- yes, yes, he, how can I put it, highly encouraged me to keep my distance."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

"He threatened you to stay away from me?"

"If you put it that way yes, yes he did."

There was a pause of silence.

Then Aziraphale laughed nervously.

"Well, what a predicament of events."

"Indeed," answered Crowley. 

Aziraphale sighed a breath of relief, walking towards Crowley. He dared to bring his hands towards the demon, asking permission to hold them once more. "I am content to know that we share not only similar goals, but similar interests. Might I say your costume is simply divine, my dear."

Crowley brought his hands into his angel's, suddenly scared that out of fear, Aziraphale would rip his away. But he didn't.

"And yours as well, angel. Also, similar interests? I didn't know angels knew how to dance."

Aziraphale chuckled. "Angels may not, but demons do," he said, grabbing his mask. "Will you come dance with me, my dear?"

Crowley's eyes softened.

"Of course."

They left the room, Aziraphale bringing Crowley under the dim lights of the hallway. From afar, they could still hear the loud music from the ballroom, and decided to dance to its echoed melody. 

_ Masquerade! _

Aziraphale intertwined his right hand with Crowley's, putting the other on Crowley's hips, while Crowley put his other hand on Aziraphale's shoulder.

"Oh dear, how forward of you, _ demon, _" Crowley teased.

Aziraphale breathed a chuckle.

"Do not worry, _ angel, _I'll be on my best behaviour."

_ Paper faces on parade _

_ Masquerade! _

_ Hide your face, so the world will never find you. _

  
  


_ Masquerade! _

________________

A.Z Fell and Co., Antiquarian and Unusual Books, 2019

Hours had passed as they both told their part of what happened between 1870 and 1871. The wine had been empty for quite some time. The night sky was clear as day, stars piercing through the blue and gray colors.

"Imagine that, a demon that wanted to cause a revolution." Aziraphale pondered. "For love."

"It was very French of him, don't you think?" Crowley humored.

Aziraphle chuckled. "It was."

Crowley stood up from his seat, walking into the middle of the room to give himself some leg room.

"A lot of things happened after, didn't they?" Said Crowley.

"Ah, yes," answered Aziraphale. "The Phantom apparently barged into the Masquerade. Made a dramatic entrance-"

"Always with the theatrics, that one."

"And in the end, the Phantom of the Opera was never seen again."

"You missed quite a lot of important events there, angel."

Aziraphale turned to meet Crowley's eyes, his eyebrows lifting upwards. 

"Hmm, I suppose, but at the time, I had decided to keep my distances. _ We _ kept our distance, actually."

"We read Victor Hugo's poems together." Crowley looked to the sky, remembering a time where he actually met the man. In a whisper, he recited one of Hugo's poems. "_ Je sonde alors ta destinée, je songe à toi, qui viens des cieux, _ _ À toi, grande âme emprisonnée, à toi, grand coeur mystérieux! _" 

Azirphale looked to Crowley, a hand under his chin. "You remembered."

"Of course. Helped him write a few lines of poetry."

Aziraphale scoffed quietly.

"Well, I see that now."

Both celestial beings looked into each other's eyes. Crowley smiled, walking up to Aziraphale.

"Will you dance with me again, Aziraphale?"

The angel smiled, getting up and interlocking his fingers with Crowley's.

"I thought you'd never ask."


End file.
